


A Deeper Understanding

by Ginger_Cat



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bodyswap, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Episode: s01e06 The Very Last Day of the Rest of Their Lives, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, I just couldn't help myself, I know I KNOW, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Probably the sappiest thing I've ever written, Quote: You can stay at my place (Good Omens), The Bus Ride, Yes it's another fic about how they learn to bodyswap by having sex, they are both so soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-09 09:01:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginger_Cat/pseuds/Ginger_Cat
Summary: “Crowley,” Aziraphale says, carefully. His voice has just gone up half an octave. “I think I have an idea."“What?"“It might be crazy. Certifiable, actually.”At this, Crowley grins. “My favorite kind.”





	1. An idea

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into the world of Good Omens fanfic. I have been floored by the awesome fanbase and outpouring of beautiful fanworks since the show aired, and am happy to be able to add my contribution, however modest it may be.
> 
> I welcome any and all comments/constructive criticism. I am always looking to be a better writer.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy.

The bus ride is quiet.

The pavement outside is wet, and the tires are spitting up the thin layer of rain that has already settled on the street. It’s only raining outside of Tadfield, though. Aziraphale wonders briefly what that might mean. He watches the streetlamps twinkle through the droplets on the windows as they drive back toward the city.

He holds Crowley’s hand the whole way home.

Crowley doesn’t look at him, but Aziraphale feels his gaze nonetheless. It’s a questioning gaze, and also a fond one. And there’s pride in it. Because he knows what it means that Aziraphale has sat in the seat next to him, and has taken his hand.

It means Aziraphale has made a choice.

There’s a certain adrenaline high that comes with making a choice like that. Aziraphale rides it all the way back to London, with more pleasure than he thought possible.

***

Crowley’s flat is dark. There is an overturned bucket at the threshold and an oiled leather coat lying in the middle of the doorway. There is a heavy scent of sulfur in the air, like fireworks on the Fifth.

“Ah,” says Crowley, cocking his head to the side. “That’ll be Ligur.”

Or what’s left of him, Aziraphale wants to say, but he’s too stunned by the revelation that Crowley actually used the Holy Water he gave him. And to do _that_. “Goodness,” he says instead, waving his hand in front of his nose. “Shall I open a window?”

“Best not,” Crowley says. “Dunno if it’s still got some power left.” He snaps his fingers. Aziraphale thinks it’s probably an attempt to miracle it away, but it doesn’t work.

“Does it linger in the smoke?” Aziraphale asks. “The power?”

“Dunno,” says Crowley again, this time with a shrug. “Never killed one before.”

Aziraphale reaches out beyond his five human senses. “It doesn’t feel evil,” he decides.

“Just smelly,” Crowley agrees. “The bastard. Shall I give you the tour?”

Crowley leads him through barren, cavernous rooms. The dominant colors are grey and black. Occasionally there’s a bit of red, or gold, from the elaborate but few pieces of decor arranged sporadically throughout. It’s like a modern art installation. There’s a metaphor here, Aziraphale thinks, but he can’t get past the fact that he’s pretty sure there’s an original Da Vinci in the corner, and the throne that seems to have be repurposed as a desk chair has the indications of a real fifteenth century royal artifact. He’s pretty sure that, if he researched it, he’d find them all listed as officially lost or stolen.

“And here,” Crowley says, leading him beyond the study, “are my plants.” He gestures with gusto into the room.

The plants are—in a word—beautiful. It’s the only place in the flat where the air doesn’t smell like putrid smoke. There are at least a hundred plants, Aziraphale thinks, as he looks up to the top of the twelve foot ceilings at the ones that are suspended in hanging baskets. There are plants that tower over him and others that curl beneath his feet as he takes a turn about the room. There are vines winding up and down the walls. All that’s missing is an apple tree, right smack in the middle.

“This is spectacular, Crowley,” says Aziraphale, and he really means it. The nostalgia is intoxicating. “Your own personal Eden.” He turns around and smiles.

Crowley is not smiling. He’s looking at him, strangely, and he’s white as a sheet.

Aziraphale feels his own face fall into worry. “Crowley?”

“It’s—nothing. Sorry. I’ve just...” He looks around the room. “Never thought about it like that.”

“Well, I think it’s wonderful,” Aziraphale tries. He feels personally responsible for Crowley’s sudden discomfort. On some level, he knows his comment has managed to ruin the demon’s most adored room in the entire house.

He thinks he must be imagining it, but the plants begin to shiver.

“This way to the kitchen,” says Crowley, leading him onward.

The kitchen is the epitome of modern minimalism. It’s a monochromatic continuous-lined impractically-designed _sculpture_. Aziraphale can’t even see where the cabinets open, and wonders if there are really any cabinets or just geometric shadows on the dark wall. There is an island of polished onyx that looks as if it’s never seen even a breadcrumb. Food is clearly unwelcome anywhere in the vicinity. It’s Aziraphale’s worst nightmare.

“Lovely,” he says, with a half-hearted attempt at warmth.

Crowley snorts. “We’ll get takeaway,” he promises, and brings him to the next room.

It’s Crowley’s bedroom.

The linens are black and red silk, and expensive—Aziraphale can tell from the doorway. The bed itself is enormous, framed with great mahogany posts that are carved in the shape of snakes. And, it’s unmade. There’s still a dent in the pillow on the right-hand side from Crowley’s head.

Aziraphale knows that Crowley sleeps, in theory (why, he could never even begin to understand), but seeing this detail gives him an uneasy feeling. Like he’s suddenly stepped into an intimate part of Crowley’s life and isn’t sure how he got there.

“You can take the bed tonight,” Crowley says. “I’ll convert the sofa.” He flicks a finger back toward the wall, in the direction of the living room.

“Oh no, that’s not necessary,” Aziraphale replies quickly. He’s conscious of the heat in his face. The thought of being in Crowley’s bed, where Crowley sleeps, is just too _much_. “Just—Just set me up with a good book and a mug of tea, and I’ll be content until morning.”

“You don’t want to sleep?” Crowley asks. “Not even after today?”

Aziraphale is tired, certainly. But mentally, not physically. Their human bodies are just for show, after all. “No, I just need a bit of quiet time, that’s all. Then I’ll be right as rain.” Aziraphale hopes, anyway.

Crowley shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He saunters back to the kitchen. “Herbal sound good?”

“Delightful,” Aziraphale says, following at his heels. He’s fleeing the bedroom, partly because of the slept-in sheets and partly because he’s very curious to find out where the kitchen tap is located since it wasn’t visible before.

Crowley reaches behind the onyx cube and brings up a steaming cup of tea. He’s miracled it, of course. Aziraphale realizes then that there is no tap. Or refrigerator, or cabinets with anything in them (other than liquor, probably). Crowley doesn’t eat.

He’s probably miracled the whole kitchen, just for this visit.

“Honey?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale nearly jumps out of his skin.

“I—er—sorry?”

“Do you want honey in your tea?”

“Oh! Oh. Yes. Thank you.” Crowley flicks the side of the cup and hands it over.

Aziraphale’s face is on fire, but Crowley doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m afraid there aren’t any books, though. There’s the television. But I wouldn’t turn it on, if I were you. It... tends to malfunction.”

“Oh, that’s alright. Really. I’m sure I can find something to occupy my time.” Aziraphale has made his way back to the room with the plants without realizing it. He turns in the doorway, admiring again the lush greenery. He instantly feels more at ease.

Crowley clears his throat. “Angel.”

Aziraphale looks at him, momentarily lost in the garden. “Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

The angel isn’t sure how to answer that question. He’s had and resolved an identity crisis within a span of six days (although, if he thinks about it, it’s been going on much longer than that). There was The End of the World That Wasn’t. There was Crowley, always Crowley, on his side and no one else’s. He’s in Crowley’s flat. His bookshop has burned down. Centuries of collecting, his pride and joy, just _gone_.

“I will be,” he says, and when he does, he knows it’s true.

Crowley nods. He comes to stand beside Aziraphale and looks into the room of plants.

“What do you think they'll do to us, when they finally come?” Aziraphale asks. He blows on his tea and takes a sip.

Crowley’s eyebrows rise up and down. “Nothing good.”

“I expect they'll punish us.”

Crowley nods. “Holy water for me, I expect. Demons are awfully fond of reciprocal justice.”

“Oh. So are angels.”

“ ‘An eye for an eye.’ ”

“Quite.”

They both stare at the garden.

“So, Hellfire for you?” Crowley asks.

“Likely.” Aziraphale tries not to think about it but he can’t help it. He’ll go the way of his books, he supposes. He tries to find comfort in that, but there is none.

Crowley shakes his head. “Isn't that the rub? The thing that sustains me will destroy you.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees. “If only we could—“

He stops. Rewinds his brain. Thinks again. Nearly drops his cup.

Crowley is still deep in thought. He’s looking upward, at the vines.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, carefully. His voice has just gone up half an octave. “I think I have an idea.”

Crowley is pulled from his reverie. “What?”

“It might be crazy. Certifiable, actually.”

At this, Crowley grins. “My favorite kind.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. “What if I go to Hell, and you go to Heaven?”

Crowley blinks at him. He’s clearly waiting for more. “Aziraphale... I know our respective sides aren't the brightest bulbs, but they're bound to notice a thing like that.” 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “We wouldn't go as ourselves. We'd go as each other.”

Realization dawns on Crowley, hitting him so hard that he steps back a pace. “Agnes Nutter.”

“Choose our faces wisely.”

“Would it really work?”

Aziraphale doesn’t know. “I don't know.”

“It's not like just changing your visage. We'd have to switch bodies. And not just our earthy ones, but our metaphysical ones too.” The more Crowley talks about it, the more impossible it seems. He’s nearly vibrating with excitement.

“I know.”

A moment passes. Crowley takes off his sunglasses. His eyes are huge, and yellow.

“Let's try it.”

***

They're standing in the garden still, for it seems to be the place where they're most comfortable in the entire flat. And comfort, they've agreed, is essential for what they're about to try.

"How should we do this?" Crowley asks. He's so keen that he's practically bouncing. Aziraphale tries not to speculate on it too much. He's probably just really excited about pulling one over on Beelzebub.

"I assume we'll need to make physical contact," Aziraphale says. He wipes his palms unconsciously on the tops of his thighs. 

"Right," says Crowley. He shakes out his wrists and holds both hands forward.

Crowley’s hands are cool and smooth. There's no trace of the clamminess that seems to have suddenly afflicted Aziraphale’s. Cool and smooth and strong. Aziraphale tries not to squeeze too hard. 

"Alright. So. Have you ever possessed anyone before?" 

Crowley shakes his head. "Nope."

"Never?" Aziraphale’s surprised. He forgets about his sweaty hands for the moment. "What sort of demon are you?"

Crowley looks a bit miffed. "Not a very good one, we've established."

"I just mean—well, how is it that out of the two of us, I'm the one with the possessing experience?" 

"I dunno," Crowley says. "You're not a very good angel either." 

Only Crowley could say that with any degree of fondness. Aziraphale gives him a brief glare, anyway. "Okay. Well. The first thing you should realize is that you'll be blind until you find the host. I had to bounce around for quite some time, trying to find a receptive body close enough to London to be useful. There really was no rhyme or reason to where I went. It seemed completely random."

"This should help with that, right?" Crowley gently shakes their joined hands. 

"Probably, yes. I'm just saying, that when you're out of your body, time and space don't behave predictably. I didn't feel as if I was being propelled _forward_, or _into_. It was more of an... absorption. Does that make sense?" 

"Honestly, no," Crowley confesses, although he doesn't sound the least bit discouraged. "I think we should just have a go and see what happens." 

Aziraphale drops his hands. "Crowley, this is serious! What if you get lost? Or one of us gets discorporated? Do you think we'll just be able to waltz back Upstairs and ask for a replacement body?" 

"Yeah okay. You're right. Sorry. I'm just a bit jumpy." He holds out his hands again. 

Aziraphale doesn't take them. "Maybe we should do more research first. Seriously, if we get discorporated—" 

"Then we'll bounce around from human to human until we find each other. And then live in disguise until we think of something else. If anything it'll make it harder Heaven and Hell to find us." Crowley grins. "It's a win-win."

Aziraphale sighs. 

"Plus, we don't really have time to research. They could come for us at any point. Aziraphale." Crowley reemphasizes his open hands. "This is our best option right now. Let's please just try."

Aziraphale looks at him. He can't decide whether the demon's optimism is a blessing or a curse. He takes his hands again, with a little nod. "On the count of three, then. One, Two, Three—" 

They both close their eyes and concentrate. 

Nothing happens at first. Then there is a vibration in the air, slight in the beginning, but it quickly ramps up as they draw from their respective powers trying to make something happen. The vibration assumes a buzzing sound, after a bit, at which point Aziraphale starts to get a bad feeling. He opens his mouth to warn Crowley, but suddenly there's a push and then a _crack_, and he loses contact with Crowley’s hands as he goes flying backward. He lands in a particularly bushy plant that somehow absorbs most of the damage, and when he finally extricates himself, he sees that the same thing has happened to Crowley on the other side of the room.

Crowley brushes off his jacket and fluffs his hair to remove the twigs and leaves. "Well, that didn't work," he says, inspecting the plant for damage. He raises a hand in front of it and all the broken branches heal.

Aziraphale is painstakingly picking bits of plant out of his curls. He gives up and miracles it away. "No. It certainly didn't. I don't think it's going to work by forcing it. It's got to be more of an exchange."

"I was reaching out," Crowley says, crossly. "I was trying to find you, and you weren't there. I hit a wall."

"I'm sorry. I just don't... I was trying to reach out too."

"Well, maybe only one of us should reach out."

"And what should the other one do? We can't both inhabit the same body. It's too dangerous."

"Why? What's going to happen?" 

"Well, if that little explosion just now is any indication." Aziraphale is getting annoyed. Crowley’s not thinking this through. 

"So, what then? We both have to reach out, but we also have to be receptive at the same time?"

"That seems to be the whole of it, yes."

"How's that going to bloody work?" 

"I don't know!" 

They stare at each other. It’s no use getting angry, Aziraphale thinks. They only have each other right now. The thought is starkly real, in the face of their failure.

“Let’s it try again,” Crowley says. Aziraphale wouldn’t be surprised if the demon’s thoughts mirrored his. They always seem to be on the same wavelength. This should be easy. Why wasn’t it easy?

Aziraphale nods and they link hands again.

“On three,” Crowley says. “One, two, three--”

It’s a wall. Aziraphale can feel it now, one big wall, except it’s not just in front of him, it’s all around. And there’s someone knocking.

“_Let_ _me_ _in_!” Crowley growls, through the buzzing noise.

Aziraphale lets go of his hands and gives up. “I apologize. I—”

“Why are you so—” Crowley stops himself. He’s angry, and upon closer inspection, hurt.

“Let’s try again.” Aziraphale holds out his hands. His voice shakes. “I can do it, let’s just try.”

Crowley’s pacing in circles.

“Crowley, please.”

“It’s no use,” Crowley says. “It’s not going to work.”

“We’ve only tried twice, it’s not—”

“Twice!” Crowley shouts, and the plants start to quake. “It’s been a lot more than _twice_.”

Aziraphale feels cold. He realizes they aren’t talking about the body swap, anymore. “I’m sorry,” he says, quietly.

“Don’t.” Crowley walks over to the corner of the room. There’s a giant peace lily blooming on a stand. He crosses his arms in front of it, his back to the angel.

“My dear—”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Aziraphale stares and the slim line of Crowley’s back. “It _is_ a long time to wait,” he acknowledges.

“You’ve been through a lot.”

“So have you.”

Crowley turns around. His yellow eyes have calmed. “I deserved it, though.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know how to. Because on some level, Crowley’s right. He Fell. Whatever came after was to be expected. Except Aziraphale doesn’t know if he believes that anymore, and he’s not sure he ever did.

Crowley turns back to the plant. Aziraphale tries to think of something to say and comes up empty. Whatever this is, between them, has been six thousand years in the making. It’s impossible to put a word on it. Or any number of words, really.

“I've got an idea,” Crowley says, suddenly.

Aziraphale starts. “What is it?”

“Just hear me out.” Crowley turns around. His arms are still crossed in front of his body but it’s not defensive anymore. It’s something else. Protective, perhaps. “And don't say anything right away. Just… push past the initial shock. And think.”

Aziraphale stares, wide-eyed.

Crowley takes a deep breath. “What if we have sex.”

The plants have stopped shaking. They’ve now gone the opposite way, and are exhibiting an unnatural stillness. Almost as if they’re holding their collective breath_. _But plants don’t breathe, Aziraphale reminds himself, before his brain can process what Crowley has suggested. Not that way.

“_Sex_?” Aziraphale knows he sounds outraged because Crowley visibly cringes. “I beg your pardon--”

“Wait! Just wait. Give it a bit, just think about it.”

And God help him, Aziraphale does. His mind is rattling a mile a minute, through explanations, reasonings, _images_—

“Joining of bodies,” he spits out, to start somewhere.

“Yes.” Crowley’s voice is gentle and encouraging.

Aziraphale starts to get his thoughts in order. “Climax has been described as an out of body experience, by some. _La petite mort,_ as the French say.”

“Little death.” 

“Yes. And it will give us a chance to practice at... at… being _inside_ one another.” Aziraphale’s eyes are still huge, but the look on his face has changed. He refocuses on Crowley. “We should do it.”

Crowley swallows. “Yeah?”

“It's a good idea.” And it is. It’s a grand idea. Aziraphale realizes that he’s never heard of a better idea, in all his life.

“Well. Right. Good. So.” Crowley filters through all the words in his vocabulary that fill awkward silence.

“Shall we go to the bedroom?” Aziraphale suggests.

Crowley’s eyes are deep gold, the pupils like giant slitted voids. “Now?”

“No time like the present,” Aziraphale replies, conscious that he’s suddenly calmer than he has been all evening. Giddy, in fact. “What,” he adds, “did you want to wait for marriage?”

Crowley’s whole body tenses. He has the air of someone who just ran headfirst into a brick wall at full speed. And then his mouth curls to the sky, and he’s laughing. They both are.

“Come on,” Crowley says finally, holding out his hand.

Aziraphale feels the laughter quiet into something warm inside his chest. He takes his hand and allows himself to be led back through the kitchen, to the room with silk sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about Crowley's "garden": I added significantly more plants than what was seen in the show. I just felt like Crowley would have gone overboard with it.  
Also, the title of this work is from The War On Drugs' album of the same name.


	2. On three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely comments and kudos so far!
> 
> Herein lies the smut...

Kissing Crowley is not something Aziraphale’s ever imagined. Well, he doesn’t think he’s imagined it. Not consciously, anyway. But there’s something familiar about it, when it happens, though Aziraphale can’t put his finger on what exactly it reminds him of. Maybe it’s a bit like that feeling he gets when he’s finally tracked down a rare book, like when he found Agnes Nutter’s prophecies in the backseat of Crowley’s car. Or maybe it’s like eating the most delicious thing in his life. He can’t think of the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten, though, so there’s no specific experience to compare it to. And anyway, he’s being rapidly distracted from his thoughts by Crowley’s lips.

Dessert. It was probably a dessert.

“You’ve done this before,” Aziraphale murmurs, when Crowley takes a pause.

The demon shakes his head. “I haven’t actually. Just seen a lot of films.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“Don't demons do this sort of thing?”

“With each other?” Crowley wrinkles his nose. “Ew.” 

“Well, what about with humans?”

“Humans? Sex with a demon is, like, automatic assignment to the deepest pit in Hell.”

“So you never did it?”

“Of course not!”

“To spare human souls?” Aziraphale asks, innocently.

Crowley makes a face. “Well, you'd have to be attracted to one, first,” he grumbles. 

“Oh.” Aziraphale has just had a thought, and not a very pleasant one. In fact, he’s suddenly quite worried about the integrity of their little plan. “Right. Attracted. So for us... I mean. Would it... are you...” He’s not sure how to ask what he wants to ask. He hopes that Crowley can figure it out simply from context.

Crowley does. He clears his throat. “It, um... won't be a problem.”

“Ah.”

They stare at each other. Aziraphale wonders how so many centuries have passed without ever having this conversation. He supposes that it wasn’t all Crowley’s fault.

“I never knew,” he says, softly.

“Didn't you, really?”

The angel shakes his head. “Not about that, anyway.”

“But you knew some things.”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley’s lips. They’re still a bit pink from being kissed. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”

The lips turn upward. “Wasn’t I.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley captures his mouth again.

For two people who are quite possibly living the last night of their lives, Aziraphale and Crowley move slowly. They sit on the edge of the bed and kiss, and then they lie side by side and kiss, and then Crowley sits up on his elbow and kisses Aziraphale from above. Aziraphale has maneuvered himself perfectly into the little dent in the pillow, where Crowley’s head had been the last time he’d slept. There’s something enchanting about the fact that the last time Crowley’s head was there, he didn’t know the angel’s would be there next.

Crowley pauses to stare at Aziraphale’s face. He splays his hand on Aziraphale’s cheek and glides his thumb across his lips. He shifts his body and settles so that he’s pressing against Aziraphale’s side, watching his eyes. The angel doesn’t break the gaze—not even when he feels Crowley’s full hardness against his thigh.

Aziraphale has never really given much thought to the human body he wears. He chose a male one simply because that’s what resembled most closely his metaphysical form at the time, when he was first assigned to Earth. He’s never thought to change it. It has served him well so far. That sort of thing doesn’t matter in Heaven and Hell, anyway, so the advantages or disadvantages gained and lost are all Earthly. And on Earth, much of the time, being male is an advantage.

Plus, he likes the clothes.

But now, feeling Crowley’s length beside him, Aziraphale realizes there’s an entire category of maleness that he hasn’t explored in all of his six thousand years on Earth. And that if they are really going to have sex, Aziraphale is going to have to take a crash course.

“How do you do that?” Aziraphale asks, glancing down and then back up.

“It’sss not too difficult,” Crowley says. His speech is starting to slur into hissing, which is doing something unmentionable to Aziraphale’s insides. “You sssort of just... relax .”

“Relax?” Aziraphale asks. What’s going on down there doesn’t seem very relaxed, to him.

“I mean into your human body. Just let it sssteer, for a bit.”

Aziraphale has no idea how to do that. “How?”

Crowley smiles, like he’s got a secret. “Well, I’m sure it’s a bit like possessing sssomeone and then letting them control for a little while. I wouldn’t know, though,” he adds.

Aziraphale feels himself blush. “Well. You seem to have figured it out pretty quickly, for someone who hasn’t any prior experience.”

“I have experience with _sssome_ things.”

“Such as?”

Crowley sighs and rests his head on his hand again. “Have you really not tried to... you know...”

Aziraphale just looks at him.

“...masssturbate?” Crowley finishes.

Whatever Aziraphale thought Crowley was going to say, it wasn’t that. “I beg your—of course not!”

“So you really do just ssspend all your free time reading and eating sssushi?” Crowley shakes his head. “Angels.”

“At least I haven’t spent it sleeping and _wanking_!”

Crowley grins. “Touché.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale says, rolling his eyes. “If you’re going to liken it to possessing someone, I think I can manage to figure it out.”

“Oh good.” Somehow, Crowley’s managed to stay aroused the entire time they’ve been talking. He hasn’t moved away from Aziraphale’s thigh. “Does that mean I can kissss you again?”

Aziraphale looks up at him. “Of course. Why did you stop?”

“Can’t recall,” Crowley says, and leans in again.

It’s pleasant, this. More than pleasant, it’s decadent. Aziraphale could do this all day—lying in silk sheets, kissing the love of his life. Because that’s what Crowley is, isn’t he? Aziraphale’s finally accepted it. And this just adds another layer of closeness, of pleasure, like a mug of cocoa next to a roaring fire on a chilly, winter day. He wonders what sex will be like. He expects it will be the same, only _more_.

He wants to find out.

Aziraphale closes his eyes and sinks down into his human body. He feels its heaviness first, the layers of skin and blood and bone, and then he feels its warmth. Warm beneath the clothes, warm body sidled up next to him, warm mouth and lips and tongue. He exhales, and there’s heat there too. He feels his lungs contract; he feels the blood throb from his heart to the tips of his fingers and his toes. Crowley is lying on top of him, or very nearly. His hand is in the angel’s hair, and the angel feels that too, the gentle pull of Crowley’s fingers through his curls. Aziraphale threads a hand into Crowley’s hair as well. It feels softer than he thought it would.

Crowley makes a noise that Aziraphale might describe as a whimper, if he didn’t think Crowley would abhor it. A gentle sound that he _felt_ more than heard, being that his mouth was directly at the receiving end. Aziraphale is encouraged by that sound. He’s encouraged by the whole thing, how Crowley is kissing him with abandon, how he’s made his way on top of him without asking first, simply because he can’t help it and has probably not even realized he’s done so. How he hasn’t realized the additional noises he’s making as Aziraphale slides his hand down Crowley’s bicep and to his ribcage.

Crowley loves him. Crowley is attracted to him. Crowley has called him his best friend, he’s made it clear that there’s nowhere else in the entire universe that he’d rather be than with Aziraphale, for eternity. Crowley has been waiting six millennia worth of lifetimes for this moment.

Aziraphale didn’t know it was possible to love someone that much, and he’s an _angel_.

Aziraphale feels love. Feels the ache of it in his beating heart, in his expanding lungs, in his bones. He feels it the way humans feel it, a tumultuous wave of joy tinged with sorrow, because it’s wrapped up in the ephemeral—the mortality of the human body is limiting for all things, except that. And for what is quite possibly the first time, Aziraphale feels his _own_ mortality. Because not dying for thousands of years is not the same as living forever, and when angels die, they are truly gone. If Hellfire and Holy Water are the chosen means of punishment, as he and Crowley suspect, they’ll be obliterated from existence. There is no afterlife for their kind. There’s just _nothing_.

Aziraphale is heavy with love. His body is drenched in it. The chemicals in his human brain have drugged him, and he has let them.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathes. His yellow eyes are round and bright, nearly glowing in the dim light of the bedroom. Aziraphale realizes then that he’s succeeded in becoming aroused. He glances downward to where both sets of hips disappear into the shadowed folds of their trousers. He looks back up at the demon, and whispers the only appropriate thing he can think of:

“Make love to me, Crowley.”

For a split second, Crowley stops time. Aziraphale is sure of it. And then he is kissing him again, and fumbling at the buttons on his waistcoat, and with the knot in his tie. Aziraphale tugs fruitlessly at the collar of Crowley’s shirt, then gives up and pulls Crowley back to him by that little silver scarf. When Crowley grinds their hips together for the first time, Aziraphale understands very clearly why people get addicted to this, why they destroy their precious lives. Why they _sin_.

“Do that again,” he gasps.

Crowley does. There is sweat beading on his brow. But demons don’t sweat, Aziraphale reminds himself, in the half a breath before Crowley is moving against him. They don’t get over-heated. They’re comfortable in Hellfire, for God’s sake. Aziraphale wonders how much time Crowley has really spent in his human body, how many times he’s given himself to it, and how fully, and how long he stays there. If sometimes he doesn’t want to leave.

There is a pang of tenderness somewhere inside Aziraphale’s chest. He buries his face in Crowley’s neck as Crowley thrusts against him again.

“Angel,” Crowley groans, “we can’t do it like thisss.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale asks, lifting his hips to meet where Crowley’s have gone.

“Because. It defeatsss the purpose.”

Aziraphale blinks at him for a moment, and then remembers. “Oh. The body swap.”

“The point is to actually...” Crowley trails off.

“Right. Trousers off?”

Aziraphale reaches down to unbutton his flies, but Crowley snaps his fingers and both their trousers disappear and reappear folded on the floor with the rest of their remaining clothes. Only their pants remain.

“Sssorry,” the demon apologizes, and then adds, a little sheepishly, “mine don’t come off without a miracle.”

Aziraphale smirks and folds his arms around Crowley’s neck. “I always did wonder.”

“Shut up,” Crowley says, kissing him again.

He smooths a hand over Aziraphale’s bare chest, his fingertips ghosting over a nipple. The movement elicits a tingling sensation that travels down Aziraphale’s body as the demon trails his fingers over his stomach—and then moves further still, as Crowley slips the hand under the waistband of the his pants.

There is an explosion somewhere in Aziraphale’s brain when Crowley’s hand encircles him. He’s unsure if it extends through all the way to his angelic body, but it certainly feels like it does. It feels so good that it’s almost painful, and he lets out a cry.

“Oh God,” Crowley exhales, and Aziraphale thinks he’s never heard a filthier sound than that: the Almighty’s name, blasphemed from a demon’s lips. He writhes under Crowley’s grasp. “God, thisss isss going to kill me.”

Aziraphale wonders if God listens every time someone calls out Her name during sex. He hopes She doesn’t. She’s omniscient, of course, so it’s not like She doesn’t know what’s happening, but he would prefer if She wasn’t focused on it directly at the moment. Although, when Crowley strokes him again, Aziraphale decides he no longer cares.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley gasps, as Aziraphale moans into his ear. “Can you—could you pleassse—“

Aziraphale doesn’t even have the wherewithal to be ashamed when he realizes what the demon wants, and thus how selfish he’s been so far. He simply responds to the request by reaching down and putting his hand into Crowley’s pants. He tries to copy the movements that Crowley is using on him. Crowley’s eyes close and his head drops down, smashing their lips together.

It makes sense, then, why Crowley suggested this. There’s a simultaneous give and receive, which seemed so very impossible before, but now it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“_Angel_,” Crowley says desperately.

“Please,” Aziraphale replies, tugging Crowley’s pants off of his hips.

Crowley leans back to finish removing his own pants, and then reaches down and slides Aziraphale’s off too. He shifts forward again and Aziraphale opens his legs automatically. The angel feels a bit exposed, it’s true, but mostly he just wants to feel Crowley’s body on his again. Crowley puts one hand on Aziraphale’s thigh as the other slithers down to a place that he’s never had to ever think about before.

“Are you sure?” Crowley asks, his breath hot on the angel’s face. “You don’t have to be the one to... we could ssswitch positionsss....“

“_No_,” Aziraphale says, firmly, and blushes a little. “It’s... this is how I imagined it.”

Crowley nods and swallows. “I won’t hurt you,” he promises, not that he has to. Any cause for pain can be remedied with a miracle in an instant.

“I know, my dear,” Aziraphale assures him.

Crowley’s gaze goes back to the space between Aziraphale’s legs. His face is painted with determination, and adoration. He shifts forward, lining himself up, and uses both hands to ease himself inside Aziraphale’s body.

When it happens, Aziraphale can’t breathe. He doesn’t really need to, as an angel, but he’s so deep into his human body that he forgets. The sensation is unlike anything he could have imagined. It doesn’t hurt—Crowley has kept his promise—but Aziraphale’s muscles are still expanding to accommodate him, and the tightness is halting.

“Relax,” Crowley murmurs, gently. “I’ve got you.”

Aziraphale takes quick breaths as he nods.

Crowley looks at him. “Alright?”

Aziraphale nods again. He can’t speak. He’s having a sort of crisis, although not necessarily a bad one. It’s just that he’s been on Earth for so long, and he’s never thought to imagine what this might be like. Sex is such a human thing, and he’s always been taught that human things are beneath him. Beneath all the angels in Heaven. He hasn’t always believed that—indulging in clothing and food is proof—but sex? For him it has always seemed a petty, animalistic activity, perhaps because he’s seen so many times in the history of the World where it _was_. But this—_this_—

And then Crowley moves, and the world goes white.

“_Oh_,” Aziraphale moans, because the words he wants to use haven’t been invented yet. “_Oh_.”

“That’sss it,” Crowley is saying, somewhere far away. “Oh, _God_.”

“Crowley—_Crowley_—”

Crowley kisses him. Aziraphale feels a deep ache of pleasure at every thrust, which is amplified by the way Crowley is sliding his tongue into the angel’s mouth. The combined sensation is too much to handle.

“Oh—oh, _Lord_ _Almighty!”_ Aziraphale cries.

Crowley makes a deep noise of impact, like he’s been punched in the stomach. He reaches up to take Aziraphale’s hand off of his shoulder and threads their fingers together on the mattress. “Oh three,” he manages to say, although it sounds like every coherent word is an effort.

_Oh_ _yes_. Aziraphale remembers again what he keeps forgetting.

“One,” Crowley says, sitting up a little. “Two.” He reaches down with his free hand, too low for Aziraphale to see what he’s doing. “Three—“

Crowley takes Aziraphale once more in his grasp, and Aziraphale comes with a shout.

It’s as if every part of his body is combusting with sensation—the molecules wrenching apart, dissolving into pleasure. It’s a bit like discorporation, he thinks, in some far-off corner of his brain, except _that_ had been painful, and _this_ is _ecstasy_. He feels light, lighter than air, the pieces of him lifting off into to the sky to be scattered across the universe. But something catches him at the last moment. It takes him in, rebuilding his structure one piece at a time, until he’s heavy and whole again. He finishes riding out the waves of his orgasm with his eyes closed, and when he opens them, he’s staring down at himself.

He watches his own face grin in a way that is familiar. But not because it’s something he’s seen in a mirror. “It worked,” he says, dumbfounded.

“Indeed,” says the body. It doesn’t sound like Crowley, but he’s there alright. There and underneath him. He’s staring intently at Aziraphale’s (well, his own) face. “I’m sweating,” he observes.

Aziraphale lifts a hand to his forehead, and it comes away damp. “I did notice that, before.”

“Interesting,” Crowley says. “Are you?” He puts a hand to his. “Not really.”

“You _were_ doing all the work,” Aziraphale admits.

Crowley grins. Aziraphale likes how it makes him look. “That was fun.”

Aziraphale tries out a smile with Crowley’s face. It stretches differently but feels pretty much the same. “Fun may be an understatement.”

“Agreed,” Crowley says. He’s beaming. “Have to do it again sometime.”

There’s a little shiver of pleasure that runs through Aziraphale’s belly at the thought. He realizes they’re still joined together. “Perhaps sooner, rather than later?”

Crowley’s eyelids grow heavy. “Oh yeah?” He shifts his hips back and forth, and Aziraphale feels himself start to lengthen again. “How soon?”

“No time like the presssent,” Aziraphale hisses, and lowers Crowley’s mouth to his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only Aziraphale could say "Make love to me" and make it sound sexy... Although it still seems like something Crowley might have rolled his eyes at, had he not been so very turned on by that point.


	3. Epilogue

At dawn, Aziraphale is staring out the window.

The sunlight filters in through the remaining clouds from the previous night’s rainstorm. People are starting to gather on the street, commuting to early shifts at their places of work. Delivery lorries and postmen are making their rounds. Somewhere, in some other part of the city, one postman in particular is taking a well-deserved day off. Somewhere else, miles away, a boy is still sleeping next to his Dog.

Crowley is sleeping too, in Aziraphale’s body. He’s snoring gently. Aziraphale briefly wonders if Crowley’s body snores as well, and wonders if he’ll ever get the chance to find out. They’re still living in each other’s bodies, for now, and will be for the foreseeable future. They don’t know when Heaven and Hell might come for them, so they have to be ready at any time. They’ve spent the night practicing swapping back and forth. They’ve got so good at it that they can do it from a simple handshake—although, that’s not nearly as fun as the other way. Which they’ve done, too. Multiple times.

Aziraphale takes a bite of cold pizza. They’d had it delivered in the middle of the night, when most of the finer restaurants had already closed—though, as Aziraphale had reasoned, an old-fashioned greasy slice of pepperoni really is the only satisfying food after midnight. Even Crowley had a taste, although he made up some tosh about how Aziraphale’s taste buds were too refined for him to properly enjoy it.

Now cold, the oil on the top has congealed into an orange sludge. It’s delectable. Aziraphale takes another bite, and watches a man on a velocipede ride around the corner.

Aziraphale wonders for how long they’ll need to wait. If Heaven and Hell will come from them, at all. He’s surprised to find thought isn’t exactly frightening. An eternity in Crowley’s body wouldn’t be such a bad thing. There are some highly entertaining perks that come with being a demon, he’s discovered. Taking his snake form was a treat and a half—he could actually _smell_ with his _tongue_.

And besides, he thinks, it doesn’t really matter which body he wears. Not as long as Crowley is there, beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't even check the word count before I posted this-- somehow, through some demonic intervention, I ended up with 6667 words. So yes, I removed a word, to make it an even 6666.
> 
> It must be fate.


End file.
